


Which Is It, Slick?

by afractionof (greensunsky)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Doc Scratch - Freeform, Gen, The Felt - Freeform, The Midnight Crew - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensunsky/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is— well, you guess that depends who you ask. Jack? No. Mr. Noir? Definitely not. Slick? Huh, now that… that’s starting to sound better and better. Maybe old Diamond Eyes was really onto something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Which Is It, Slick?

**Author's Note:**

> First try with Slick. Late 1920s Era AU. Also posted on my tumblr.

_Jack be nimble._  
  
 _Jack be quick._  
  
 _Jack jump over the candlestick…_  
  
Jack— you hate that name. That you share it only adds to your disdain.   
  
You always thought Jack was an idiot, jumping over that candle like some dandy with time to spare instead of walking around it and picking it up. That would have been intelligent. It would have been useful and it would have given poor, dumb Jack the means to burn out the eyes of the ones taunting him to jump in that sing-song, grating little voice.   
  
_Jump, Jack._  
  
 _Jump._  
  
 _Don’t forget the candlestick._   
  
Despite that, the rhyme has always been there, sitting in the back of your mind. You’ve grown used to it. The childish voices of the kids that used to taunt you have long since faded, replaced by the low tones of the bosses that field you jobs when they’re feeling generous and you find yourself mouthing the words every evening as you haul your ass around the city and get down to business.  
  
Well, perhaps you wouldn’t call it business.   
  
\--your job, maybe. But even that’s pushing it.  
  
Your only business, at the present time, is staying alive.   
  
Unfortunately, the rain is making that difficult and your stomach makes a loud sound, a pained reminder that you haven’t eaten the last couple of days and now would be a good time to make quick use of the thin blade in your pocket.   
  
A few stragglers have run by and, though tempting, you still have some qualms about attacking women. You’ve met one or two that could string you up no problem, but there’s something too soft about most of the other dames running around. You always think they need to be inside, especially after dark falls and their steps echo on the concrete all sharp and steady in the still of the night. Never know what’s out there—or who might be waiting.   
  
Besides, you’re here for a more important reason.   
  
Or you thought you were.    
  
He should have been here by now and it’s pretty obvious you’ve been had. Yep, the joke’s on you, kid, and it makes your blood boil.  Your lip curls in disgust and you turn away, knuckles scraping along the dirty wall you’ve been leaning against as you make your way back into the dank alley.   
  
Another deal— dropped, a dead end and one more night where you go hungry.   
  
You tug your shirt tighter around your chest and ignore the questionable color of the water that stains the collar. You’re dirty as it is; another stain makes little difference when you have no need to impress. No one wants you anyway. You’re too ‘green’, ‘a loose cannon’, you’re a hazard to them and they don’t make any efforts to disguise how they shy away from you.   
  
You know what it really is though.   
  
They’re afraid of you.   
  
A soft sound, barely noticeable over the rain makes you pause and you glance back at the opening of the alley, your anger momentarily subdued by a flare of unwelcome familiarity.   
  
Your contact?   
  
A large figure appears and your eyes drop to the tip of the cane he’s sporting. It’s hitting the ground solidly as he steps and your fists clench at your sides.   
  
You hate that sound—that quick snap, the steady rhythm. It reminds you of clocks, of the time, that time is running out and you’re still sitting in the cold and the dark and you’re going nowhere. Nowhere fuckin’ fast, at least.   
  
You hate it and you hate him for bringing it up when you’re already in shitty mood.    
  
You’re unsure if he can see you but you don’t really care either way and continue to observe him as he slows and looks down the alley. There’s a cigarette hanging on his lips but the smoke disappears into the rain before it can make any kind of fancy curl.   
  
Disappointing. It’s one of the only things you can really stand from guys like this. It’s artful and you can appreciate that.   
  
His trench coat looks warm, fashionable, even and you turn around before you can waste another minute on staring.   
  
You don’t have time for this. He can clearly overpower you at the moment and you’re not about to risk offing some upper crust fancy pants and get yourself landed with a rope around your neck.  That’d be counterproductive to your apparent desire to be a homeless vagrant for the rest of your life.   
  
“—Jack.”   
  
Your steps halt immediately and you turn around. Your eyes narrow, suspicion making you take a step back. “The hell’re you.”   
  
“I believe who you are is more important at this moment.”   
  
Oh, crisp patronization. Yes, the tone truly makes all of the difference here and you quickly rethink your earlier decision that he isn’t worth getting your hands even dirtier for, even if it might take a little more effort than usual in your malnourished state. You were clearly wrong if he’s actually wanting to tangle with you.   
  
“Who’re you,” you repeat. It’s always good to know the names of those that piss you off, after all.   
  
There’s a moment of silence before he lets out one of those sighs, like he’s really doing you a favor by pestering you and your eyes narrow further when he lifts a hand to pull back his overcoat and reveal a red diamond stitched into the pinstriped vest hidden beneath.   
  
“Diamonds Droog, Mr. Noir. Now, will you cease being difficult and answer a question in return?”   
  
The Midnight Crew, huh? Suddenly you’re more intrigued than anything else and you give a lazy shrug in response. “The hell does The Midnight Crew want with me.”   
  
You have a habit of making statements over asking questions, something the Doc was always getting on your ass about.   
  
Do you want to know or do you want to say? Being precise, Jack, is just one more key ingredient to being a good host.   
  
You still have no idea what his hang up with hosting stuff is. He’s apparently too thick to understand that you don’t exactly have guests very frequently and, when you do, being a good host is the last thing on your mind.   
  
“The question is, Mr. Noir, what do you want with us?”   
  
You hate these mind games and point a frustrated finger at him. “You tell me what the hell ya want or get outta my face and let me back to my business.”  
  
He laughs and you’re ready to burst a blood vessel because he sounds so confident and genuinely amused, which is really the part that gets your goat.   
  
“It would appear that your business has been… shall we say, cancelled… for the evening.”   
  
Well, fuck.   
  
They offed your guy. No wonder the bastard didn’t show up.  
  
They took him out and that pisses you off. Six hours in the rain for nothing!  
  
Before you can say anything though, he’s adjusted his coat and his cane is hitting the ground once more as he walks away from you. “Well, I suppose if there’s nothing then I’ll leave you to it.”   
  
His calm tone makes you want to strangle him and the fact that you’re interested in what this big lout has to say makes you want to strangle yourself. But, when your stomach growls and your hand automatically settles over it, you swallow your annoyance and hurry out of the alley.   
  
You learned a long time ago that starving yourself isn’t a way to spite anyone.   
  
Except yourself—in a kind of roundabout, idiotic way and you’re not idiot.   
  
“I want dinner,” you say, sloshing through a puddle he’s conveniently skipped around. You make sure it splashes his shoes and don’t even bother hiding your amusement when his lips purse.   
  
“Dinner it is,” he murmurs, motioning for you to follow. “In the future, Mr. Noir, please have a care for those around you. These shoes were expensive.”   
  
You snort and shove your hands in your pockets. “What a fuckin’ dandy, Mr. Diamond Eyes, the hell you even do if you ain’t willin’ to get your hands a little dirty, huh?”   
  
He’s silent and when you finally look over, his lips are curved as he glances at you. One dark eyebrow arches and you don’t know what the fuck you said but he’s got that look that tells you he’s not thinking about those shoes anymore and you’re out of the loop.   
  
“I don’t believe I said I was opposed to dirty hands, Jack. Quite the contrary, really.”   
  
-.-.-.-  
  
“The shoulders are too tight.”   
  
From the mirror, you see Droog shrug. “It will correct your wretched posture.”   
  
“Fuckin’ pansy,” you mumble, slapping the tailor’s hands back when he tries to adjust your cuffs for you. “I fuckin’ got it, get your prissy hands back off me.”   
  
You ignore his muttered arguments and tip your head to get a good look at yourself in the mirror.   
  
It’s been three days since Droog picked you up on the street and, damn, do you look swell.  The suit he’s gotten you into is black, fits the cut of your back next to perfectly and it sure as hell beats the scratchy material of that shirt you’d been wearing.   
  
You can’t even remember the last time you bought a hat, let alone a piece of work like this and, as you hop down off the stool and stroll over, you give him a cocky grin.   
  
“Got me lookin’ like a regular Joe, Diamond Eyes, you proud?”   
  
Your lips twitch when he gives you a flat look. He hates it, you can tell. But he hasn’t put up much of a fuss and you’re just waiting for him too.   
  
Much to your disappointment, he just rolls his eyes at you and pulls you over in front of a smaller mirror. A comb is procured from his pocket and you let out a long suffering sigh when he rakes your dark hair back with it before dropping a hat loosely on your head. It slants to the side and you kind of like it.   
  
“We good, pal?” you ask, batting his hands away.    
  
“Good, no. Better, yes. You look less like a rat I dragged out of the sewer.”   
  
He’s slipping the comb back in his pocket and you let out a huff of annoyance, tempted to smack him upside his big head but you don’t feel like reaching that far up. Droog is a giant, towering over your measly height by a good six inches, but it doesn’t take much thought to realize he doesn’t fight unless he needs to. It’s in all of his fancy clothes and precision.   
  
He doesn’t waste shit and that’s pretty interesting for someone of his caliber.   
  
You like it and damn if it doesn’t burn you up if you think about it too long. Which, you’ve decided, you won’t because, at the moment, it doesn’t really serve your purpose to show off that loose cannon reputation you’ve earned.  
  
You’re pretty sure he knows about that though.  
  
He knows about everything.   
  
“You gonna tell me what this’s all ‘bout?” You’re getting antsy and he’s been keeping tight lipped about why he showed up in the first place. “Don’t hold out on me, Diamonds. Give me yer answer fuckin’ straight or I’m out and I’m takin’ this damn suit with me.”   
  
He stares at you and you stare right back.   
  
There’s no hesitation in him. He’s not fuckin’ afraid of you and that’s thrilling in its own right. It’s almost tempting just to see what it would actually take to get a real rise out of him but you cap that thought the second it floats up. Best not to bait bears and all that good sense shit. Especially bears that have been feeding you and spared you a bit of soap.   
  
Still, you know you don’t look like much, short, lanky and all-together too skinny for your own good but you haven’t survived this long by being weak. You’re quick. You know all the soft spots on a person’s body to sink a blade into and you sure as shit aren’t going to think twice about spilling a little blood if it keeps you breathing for another day.   
  
“I’m here to offer you a deal.”   
  
It’s a simple statement and you almost jump when he steps over, slapping a card over your chest. “We’re in a bit of a bind, you could say. There’s a little issue with a certain doctor that we believe you’re familiar with. You could say we’re both after the same thing and we’re missing a key player in our game.”  
  
“You get off on talkin’ in all these fancy riddles?”   
  
You shove his hands away and snatch the card, flipping it over.   
  
It’s an Ace and you glances up. “Spades?”   
  
“Pretty observant, Slick.”   
  
“You ever gonna stop callin’ me ‘Slick’?” He’d taken to it that first night at dinner when you snapped and waved your steak knife at him when he kept calling you ‘Mr. Noir’. You guess it’s better than nothing, at least.  
  
He just shrugs but you’ve decided you’ll take it—on one condition. “No more of this ‘Mr. Noir’ shit, ya hear? And don’t ever fuckin’ call me ‘Jack’ again.”   
  
“Perhaps if you agree to none of this ‘Diamond Eyes’ shit.”   
  
Your lips twitch. Vulgar words like that sound weird on his lips and you figure that’s why he keeps them quiet. It might have more to do with all his pretty manners though.   
  
You glance down at the card again, flipping it over between your fingers.   
  
Ace of Spades, huh? Well, you gotta admit, they sure know how to cut a deal: feed you, clothe you and now a front row seat to their show?   
  
“What’s your deal with the Doc?”   
  
You hate him as much as the next guy but nothing says ‘expendable’ like misunderstandings and you’ve already established that you’re not an idiot.   
  
Still… just the idea is tempting. That fucker ruined your life, suckering you into a scam with The Felt and their shit network. Preyin’ on kids is despicable and, on top of that, he still treats you one which is just grating. He make no efforts to hide just how thoroughly he owns you and your hands shake just thinking about it.   
  
A hand hits your shoulders and stumble forward. “Watch it you shithead!”   
  
He gives you another one of those looks and you scowl back.   
  
“Cool it, Slick.”   
  
“This gonna be a regular thing with you?” You bite back another ‘Diamond Eyes’ and growl when he looks all too pleased. “Listen you—“   
  
He snatches the card from your fingers and holds it up to cover your mouth.   
  
“He took out someone important to us, our top card, our Ace in the hole. Though your company is quite stunning on its own, you’re not exactly useful at the dinner table. I’m sure you can put the pieces together from there.” His smile vanishes and he pulls his hand back to tuck the card in your pocket. “I believe they call this a hanging suit.”    
  
“Hangin’ suit, huh?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Your eyes dart to the side when the tailor shuffles back in and pulls your coat back. A white piece of cloth is brought up, level with your heart and you watch as he makes quick, precise stitches.   
  
You kind of like that hand sewn look, especially since he’s shaking and the thread wobbles when he cuts it.   
  
One glance in the mirror and you think you understand.   
  
“Spades Slick, huh?” You can’t help but laugh when he nods and you reach out, gripping his hand tightly. “You got a deal there, _Diamond Eyes_.”   
  
Your name is Spades Slick. You’re not much to look at and you’ve got a bit of a temper. You’re not so hot at forming words in the heat of the moment but you aren’t fucking stupid and you favor good old fashioned knives over those new guns everyone’s toting around. You might be in a hanging suit, slated to die and at the top of the deck but you… you are a member of The Midnight Crew and hell if you’re going to let anything get in your way.


End file.
